In 2004, when we escaped city life in Florida and settled in rural Utah, I took up rock farming. The unique thing about that kind of farming, it did not involve tilling rows for seed, it did not require amendments to the soil, though the ground around our house was definitely not fertile. What it entailed was wandering around, shovel in hand, looking for places where stone peeked out from in the dirt. I didn’t need to wander far or look too much. It was extraordinarily rocky land. In the years we were there, I farmed enough rock to build walls all over the place.
Some might take issue with my use of the verb “farm.” I realize that, typically, it involves growing stuff, like my nearest neighbor who grew various vegetables. But, just because my rocks were already grown, shouldn’t mean that my salvage operation didn’t involve actual farming. I was, after all, retrieving the end result of the geologic process over millennia, and I should not be debunked just because pulling up rocks is different than, say, pulling up carrots or potatoes.
So I’m still going to call it farming. Rocks may not be living things in the normal sense of the word, but they certainly are the product of a growth process. I’m no geologist, but I know rock is a natural material with a distinct mineral composition. Didn’t someone once say “great rocks from little pebbles grow,” or something like that?
In any event, over time I farmed some fair rocks. The impetus for this activity was the ever-evolving process of building a wall around our pet cemetery. So I took shovel in hand and dug up some good ones. Once in a while, I’d start to dig and, discovering that the tip o’ the iceberg theory isn’t just for floating floes, I’d be compelled by reality and my aging back to give up and let it stay right where it was. One day I found a rock that almost got to stay where it was, but with a little extra effort I managed to unearth the colossus. It had a large triangular, flat shape and I muscled it across the ground over to our pet cemetery where it became a doggie’s headstone.
As rock demarcation became an ongoing pursuit for me, my trusty wheelbarrow was one of my most important tools. I wasn’t just farming rocks; over time an element of rock reprocessing took place. That involved moving select rocks from one place to another. Rock placement is certainly not a static art. Rock sets the boundaries of plants, lawn, paths, and more. It is something that brings pleasure in the doing, as well as lasting satisfaction when admiring the various shapes to which it lends itself.
Then there are the rockeries, of course. This is where I have mixed rock farming with gardening. Rocks around there came in many sizes, shapes, shades and colors, perfect for rock gardens. Perhaps I became a bit of a rockhead, which I would define as one who likes rocks. In rural Utah, I had come to the right place.
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